Among the few PhDs in the village, I often sit at the front row during academic days in schools, called upon to give motivational speeches to young dreamers. I wear my best suit—polished shoes, and carry a worn-out briefcase filled with hope, and a voice tempered by the fires of research. I talk about resilience, hard work, and the value of education. They call me “Daktari!” with pride.
Yet now, I stand at a crossroads of brutal irony. In one hand, an invitations to pre-university parties; in the other, a redundancy letter—cold, impersonal, and final. My walking style has changed—less bounce, more burden. My head, once held high in lecture halls and academic conferences, now bows not in humility but in humiliation. The cookies, as they say, have crumbled—and not in my favour.
As I read invitation after invitation to attend events that once gave me purpose, they now sting like salt on a wound. Each one feels like a mocking echo of a life that once promised more. They clap when I rise to speak, yes—but now I wonder: Do they cheer the scholar or pity the fallen?
Meanwhile, my colleagues—some with mere degrees, some with barely an interest in academics—are heading mega secondary schools, appropriating and misappropriating millions with the skill of seasoned bankers.
They wear Italian suits, drive German machines, and build mansions with views of valleys I can only describe in metaphors. And me? I sat in Departmental/cariculum/ defences discussing policy for two biscuits and lukewarm tea, waiting for an annual teaching practice, attachment allowance that depended on how frequently I nodded at the Dean’s or CoD’s jokes.
At times, I ask the gods: Who cursed me with ambition and handed me a cloudy destiny wrapped in journals and citations? While my peers were buying land and marrying second, third…wives, I was chasing footnotes and formatting theses to APA standards. Their respect for my academic journey made me think we were equals—until redundancy undressed me at the village market at noon on a market day.
Now, I hide behind my books like a naked man clutching a banana leaf—aware it’s not enough. It is only now that I realise: Despite all the books I’ve read, there were syllabuses I skipped. I never enrolled in the School of Hustling. I skipped ‘Unit 101: How to Know People Who Know People’. I failed ‘Survival Tactics for the Overeducated’. By who and when the Sup (supplementary exam) will be administered for the fail is hard to tell… whether I’ll ever catch up, is even more painful to think of.
My local MCA, a proud D-grade holder, has travelled overseas more times than I have visited Nairobi. He’s flown in and out like a migratory bird, changing suits and companions of all shades and shapes—while I, the learned one, last boarded a plane back when Moi University flew us PSSP lecturers on a craft noisier than my neighbour’s tractor.
And what of my scholarly works? My peer-reviewed articles? My conference presentations? They gather digital dust on obscure websites while the real players of society build empires, embezzle with confidence, and return home as heroes.
In Kenya, we respect the title “Dr.” until money walks in. Then we listen to the one holding the cheque.
But let it be known: we, the scholars, are not angry—we are just awakening. We now understand that knowledge alone does not open doors in this land. Here, doors respond to handshakes, tribal arithmetic, and the ever-faithful brown envelope.
Still, I will attend those village invitations. I will smile. I will speak. And perhaps one child will still believe. But deep inside, I am learning to laugh at the joke no one warned me about: That in Kenya, a degree is only a decoration, and a PhD is just a polite way to saying you have read too much and earn too little.
By Chang’orok Joel